


And You Can Close Your Eyes

by Prismabird



Category: The Nice Guys (2016)
Genre: 1970s, Alcohol Withdrawal, Angst, Breaking Up & Making Up, Cuddling, Hand Feeding, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Reuniting, Shoulder rubs, domestic life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 16:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6995947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prismabird/pseuds/Prismabird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life doesn't come with happily ever afters, and it doesn't come with guarantees. Holland and Jackson work things out after a break up when Holland shows up at Jackson apartment, looking for help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And You Can Close Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Once again I find myself drawn to a small fandom. Let's hope it keeps growing. 
> 
> Before a movie comes out on DVD, I find it difficult to get a strong grasp on the character voices, so I hope I did all right. If they end up with a little Harry Lockhart and Perry van Shrike to them, well, I have seen Kiss Kiss Bang Bang about thirty times. :)
> 
> The story takes place in 1978, and takes the social attitudes of the time into account. 
> 
> See the bottom of the page for medical notes.

Fall 1978.

There’s a familiar creak outside of Jackson’s apartment, a groan shriek from the stairwell. That stair, the second from the top to be exact, has acted as Jackson's own personal alarm ever since he moved in, and he looks up from his mail and waits for the knock. 

It doesn't come for forty-five seconds, a forty-five seconds that puts Jackson on high alert. He makes his way to the door with his hand brushing the grip of his Walther .22. His fingers play along the handle as he calls out. "Who's there?"

"Holland."

Holland. 

Jackson keeps his hand on his gun as he opens the door a crack. 

“What are you doing here, March?” he asks, heavy emphasis on Holland’s last name, and Holland winces just a little. Good. Jackson had meant for it to sting. Between them, the air feels heavy with the weight of all four months since they’d last seen one another. Since the night he’d been shot. 

The night Holland had shot him. 

The night Jackson had left him for good.

Holland, for his part, looks like he might have spent those four months dead. His facial hair has lost all definition, growing into the start of a short, stubbly beard, and his eyes are dull and red rimmed. But no, not dead. “I need your help,” he starts, eyes on his shoes. “Holly’s away for a little while, and ... I quit ... two days ago, and I don’t have a lot of options right now...”

“I should shut this door right in your face. Tell me why I shouldn’t.”

“For old times sake? And because I can’t do this alone. And for Holly. And, you know, for Los Angeles as a whole, because my life’s work does a lot of good for this city, and-”

“Your life’s work is destroying marriages and finding people who are already dead. Shut up and come in.” Jackson tenses his jaw as he steps aside. He’s going to regret this.

“Thank you, you wont regret this,” Holland says, pushing past him and into the living room. He looks around. “Nothing’s changed. You said you were going to refurnish, you haven’t changed anything.”

“I got new fish!” Jackson gestures to his aquarium. 

 “They look just like the old fish.”

“No, that one has a black spot on his tail. You call yourself a detective?”

“I don’t know, I’m not a fish detective. There aren’t fish detectives.”

“There’s a detective named Fish.”

“That seems irrelevant.” Holland slumps down on Jackson’s creaky couch while Jackson grabs a Yoohoo from the fridge, cracks it, and hands it to him. “Where’s Holly?”

“She’s at some science camp. Can you believe it? She says she wants to go into forensics for the FBI when she grows up.” Holland hands the Yoohoo back. “I hate this stuff.”

Jackson shrugs, takes a swig off the bottle. “Science camp, huh?”

“Yeah. She’s going to be, you know, the only girl there for two weeks. Fucking terrifying.” 

“Yeah. So where are we? When was your last drink?”

“Friday night.” It’s Sunday afternoon. “It’s not hit too bad yet, you know, I've got a headache and my shoulders are tight and I feel like warm shit, but I’m not really shaking yet.”

“You’re sweating all over my couch.”

“You said you were getting a new one anyway.” 

“True. Go ahead and piss on it while you’re at it. I’m going for groceries. If you’re gone when I get back, I’m not letting you back in again, got it?” 

“Got it.” Jackson leaves.

Not again. Jackson had said as much to Holland four months before. As he walks to the store, he tries not to think about that day, the day he pushed Holland for too much. A little commitment. A place, their own place, domestic life, a real, permanent spot beside Holland in his bed. Breakfasts with him and Holly, and ... well, he’d never be a second dad to Holly, of course, but he wanted something like a place in their family. He wanted to stop hiding from her, at the very least. But it was too much. Holland couldn’t, and he wouldn’t say why, and the fight that followed was worse than any Jackson could ever recall having with his prior wives. Somehow, it didn’t come to blows. 

What it came to was bullets. 

Jackson pushes this out of his mind as he gathers provisions - Extra Strength Excedrin, Milk of Magnesia, crackers, a six pack of 7up, two six packs of Cherry Coke (all in glass bottles, not cans), a bottle of tonic water, a bottle of vinegar, a few cans of soup, a hot water bottle, Vicks, a carton of cigarettes, a tub of ice cream, and half a dozen rolls of wintergreen Life Savers.

Holland’s napping when he gets back, radio playing softly in the background. _Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, good-bye._ Withdrawal sleep is often fitful and dream filled, but Jackson doesn’t turn off the radio, and instead hums to the music as he cleans his kitchen and waits for Holland to wake. 

Letting him back in - It’s masochistic is what it is. Jackson shakes his head. He has a knack for self preservation, no denying it, but that’s never stopped him from running straight for whatever option would cause him the most suffering. 

Holland wakes up an hour later and lets Jackson know right away. “Urrgg, this _huuurrrts!_ ” he whines, sitting up.

“I could break your wrist again to distract you,” Jackson supplies helpfully. He grabs a Cherry Coke from the fridge, pops the top, and hands it to Holland. “Here, drink it. The sugar helps. You like Cherry Coke?”

“I don't know, all soda just kind of tastes sweet to me, I can’t tell them apart,” Holland says, and he drinks it deep. Jackson watches his tongue play along the rim of the bottle, feeling the shape of the cool smooth glass, and the tingle of fizz. Ritual. Such things do wonders for cravings, at least in the moment. If it gets too bad, Jackson’s ready to break out the vinegar and a tablespoon. It’s an odd but effective treatment, he knows from experience, letting the vinegar burn travel down your throat and kick you in the stomach like a shot of whiskey, and you can close your eyes, because it’s almost right, and it’s okay to relax. 

The soda is gone in half a minute. “One more?” Holland asks, holding up an index finger. 

“With dinner. You want some tomato soup with ham and cheese sandwiches?”

“No. Are you making me comfort food?” 

“No, I was going to eat this before I knew you were coming,” Jackson says, turning on the burner. “I was asking rhetorically, by the way, this isn’t a restaurant. You’re having what I’m having.”

Holland huffs. “My neck hurts,” he says, and Jackson raises an eyebrow. 

“Stop pouting like a child and take two of these,” he says, tossing the bottle of Excedrin Holland’s way. Holland catches it easily, and, medicine down, resumes pouting. 

He’s a masochist. Jackson knows it, and he should fight it, but before he can stop what he’s doing, he's standing behind the couch, hands on Holland’s shoulders. 

Holland’s tight right up his neck, trapped anxiety and unfulfilled cravings forming knots to his ears. Jackson runs his hands along Holland’s skin, feeling for tension, feeling the soft hair at the nape of Holland’s neck, and it’s the first time Jackson’s touched another human being in a non-violent capacity in four months. He kneads the muscles at the base of Holland’s neck, pleasurable little goosebumps spread up his arms, and he closes his eyes, because it’s almost right, and it’s okay to relax.

Holland whimpers, “ _Easy,_ ” and Jackson eases up the pressure until Holland starts to soften and give in his hands. “That’s good,” he sighs. “How did you get through all of this on your own?” 

“I do a lot of things on my own.”

“When did you dry out again?”

Jackson doesn’t answer at first. Then, “I started that night in the hospital. They walked me through the first few days.”

Holland looks down, says nothing. The moment is over, so Jackson goes back to the stove.

Dinner is in front of the TV. Holland refuses most of his, so Jackson ends up eating it for him, while a repeat of Emergency goes mostly ignored. It’s about this time that the shakes really get going. 

“Oh, I hate this,” Holland says, as a shudder runs through his body so hard it vibrates the couch. “I really hate this part.”

“Shaking and headaches and nausea, oh my,” Jackson agrees, taking a sip off of his coke. “What else is going on?” 

“Just everything you said, that’s all.”

“No bugs? No “Lost Weekend” shit?”

Holland shakes his head, and the rest of him follows suit. He tries to take a sip of his 7up and the bottle clanks against his teeth. Jackson wraps his hand around Holland’s and steadies it for him. “Tell me if you start to see anything, or start hearing anything that’s, you know...cracker jacks.”

“I don’t want to go to the hospital,” Holland says, and it comes out more pleading than command. 

“I don’t think it will come to that,” Jackson says, and Holland shakes again, hard. Jackson’s arms are around him in an instant, pulling him in. Masochist. 

Holland fits flush to Jackson, his back pressing right against Jackson’s stomach, his head resting on Jackson’s shoulder. Of course, Jackson already knew he would. He closes his eyes, because it’s so right, and maybe they can both relax. “Take it easy,” Jackson says. “Breathe.”

“I’m sorry I shot you,” Holland says in reply. “It was an accident.”

“Breathe, Holland.”

“I didn’t even think that gun was loaded, and I’d do anything to take it back, I swear to Jesus, I’d - I’d shoot my _own_ leg if it meant taking it back, man, and my insurance costs are already insane. They're, I think, around four times normal. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t want you to leave.”

“I didn’t leave because you shot me.” 

“I know.” 

Under Holland’s shirt, Jackson can feel the perfect circle of Holland’s wedding ring, resting over his heart. There’s no jealousy there, never has been, never will be. But it’s a reminder of Holland’s life before, just like, “You know, Holly would have survived it if you’d just told her.”

Holland sighs. “What, survived learning that her dad is a fairy? I think my daughter’s been through enough, don’t you?

“Well... she already knows that her dad’s an alcoholic, and a fuck up, and a swindler of little old ladies, and she’s still breathing, so...”

“Thank you. That was inspiring.”

“What’s one more thing, right? Kids these days already think anything goes anyway.”

“She misses you.”

“Just her?”

 “No.”

Jackson brushes aside the metal circle under Holland’s shirt, feels his heart beating there. Its rhythm’s a little fast, maybe, but nothing to be concerned about. Not yet anyway. He presses a kiss to Holland’s cheek, then lower, until Holland looks up and he’s able to reach his lips. “I’ve missed you,” Holland says.

“Are you going to tell her?”

Holland’s eyes are unreadable, unless you’re Jackson. He watches them, the subtle shifting of fear and hope toggling back and forth, fighting for dominance in their light. “Yes.”

“You’re sure?” 

For a moment, Holland’s breathing picks up pace along with his heart, and Jackson is worried that he’s about to be sick before he recognizes it for what it is - garden variety anxiety. “I suppose I’ll have to, if you’re going to come live with us.”

This time it’s Jackson whose breathing picks up, just a little, and he thinks he might take Holland up into his arms and carry him to his bed and ravish him right there. But another tremor rocks Holland head to toe, so Jackson just holds him steady as he can. “Easy,” he says. 

“Easy yourself,” Holland grumbles. “But, you know, maybe you’re right about Holly. She and her little hippy friends have been going on and on about rights lately. Women’s rights and Black rights, everyone. She said just the other day that the gays should be allowed to get married.

Jackson laughs, “Gay marriage? Yeah, that’ll be the day.” 

“But I’m still her dad. It’s different, even if I’m only part time gay.”

There’s a silence from Jackson that could fill a canyon. “You're what?”

“You know, how I think women are gorgeous, but I think you’re gorgeous too, in a kind of grizzled, manly way. I think that makes me part time gay.”

Jackson shakes his head. “Whatever gets you through.” He tips the 7up bottle to Holland’s lips. “Speaking of what gets you through, guess what we’re doing as soon as you’re feeling better?”

“Anal?”

“Meeting. What’s step one?”

Holland groans.

“Say it.”

Holland rolls his eyes.   “I admitted that I was powerless over alcohol.”

“Good. Are you?”

“I guess so.”

“Where has alcohol gotten you?”

“It’s gotten me back with you.”

“Quitting it has gotten you back with me. And I am gone the moment you so much as sip a beer, you got that?”

“Yeah, I dig it.” 

“I’m powerless too, Holland, and I’m not going back again. Not even for you.”

“Let’s watch TV,” Holland says, and like that the conversation is over. Holland leans his full weight into Jackson, tremors shuddering through them both, and they can close their eyes, because everything is so right, and it’s finally okay to relax.

**Author's Note:**

> If you are withdrawing from alcohol and began shaking, vomiting, become confused, or feel your heart is racing, have someone immediately take you to a hospital. DTs are a medical emergency. Unlike Holland, you are not immortal. I speak as both a medical professional and as someone who has been there myself. Prismabird, three and a half years sober. 
> 
> (yes, i did drink a little vinegar that first week. yes, it helped.)


End file.
